by John T. Hitchner
The mother cuddled the boy.
The boy, now 13, listened to morning news.
On the beach that summer
Visiting his parents one weekend,
In the fall, the man, now a father,
Memorial Day weekend
Looking over the neighbor’s fence
Overwhelmed by magnolia scents
Dogwood beauty complements.
Pink and white blossoms, cool blue sky
Relaxing in my lawn chair --
It’s the month of May, oh, my
How the warmth of spring is nigh!
A day in May, a day in a trance
Enthralled by nature’s beauty
Cirrus white clouds join the dance
The garden of life to romance.
Each day in May we all embrace
peace and good feelings
The weather brings out many faces
Change of pace and breathing spaces.
The month of May is meant to distract
From problems or diminish them
Surrounded by blooming blossoms
Each day in May is awesome!
don’t want to get into
it felt so damn bad
that we were poor
i wore ugly shoes
that fit too big
we lived in
it bothered me
when i drove by
saw every building
an empty lot
took it all in
it’s all gone now
and my childhood
mama cooking up a storm
in that small kitchen
the black neighbors
a variety of music
Trio Los Panchos
Nat King Cole
out our windows
the sweet smell
a framed picture
next to the Virgin Mary
a lit candle
in the middle
that ugly house
filled to the brim
with warm memories
every loving inch
don’t want to get into
this empty lot
why my chest aches
for every last
i see mama
at the window
her foodstained apron
hair in bobbypins
wrapped tight around her head
like aunt jemima,
by Bill Roberts
in her favorite chair at our place,
book still propped up in hands,
I could fill a whole album.
Mouth open, snoring midday,
dead to the world, not a care
in the world, at least not while
sleeping in that contoured chair.
Her problems were many - back
East, mainly family, dwindling
business she had taken over
when her husband died suddenly.
Aging of course, too, the pains
we, her children and in-laws,
couldn't fathom until the years
passed and we took our inheritance.
Alzheimer's finally snuck up on Mary,
my mother-in-law who was a saint
on earth, taking to that chair like
white icing on a chocolate cake.
She stopped bringing anything to read,
stopped coming altogether, so we
had to go visit her, she no longer able
to recognize, read us like a book.
by Shirley Securro
With the love of a mother who cares
The sun, the moon, the stars above
The magnitude of all her love
A mother, a rose, a garden flower
Refreshes like a summer shower
Eyes, her eyes and green,
To see those eyes…
Lips, her lips and red,
like wine stains red.
To kiss those lips…
To know this woman—
To be her man—
To live my life—
To have this dream—
Skin, soft skin and white,
like satin sheets pulled tight.
To hold her with love…
Perfume, her perfume and breeze,
like wind through summer trees.
To inhale her being…
I truly breathe.
To taste her colors—
To adore her scents—
To know such beauty…
it’s all a gift.
Love, our love and life,
like a world without strife.
To kneel before a girl…
JASON STURNER was born and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago, and currently lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. He has published four books of poetry, and his work has appeared in Nomad’s Choir, Time & Space Magazine, and The DuPage Valley Review. Contact Website
While my eyes are shuttered and I rest,
Do not reap unseen upon this night,
To better his body is now my only quest.
I beg of thee,
Do not ferry him across the waters vast
Into the ocean fathoms of eternal time.
Do not usher him out of this fight,
Do not make straight the heartbeats line.
I ask of thee,
Perhaps a bargain might I strike?
Or give instruction so may I swiftly make amends,
Or that I shall lay myself within his tender place,
And without due haste you inter my soul instead.
I beg of thee,
Even a thousand farewells could not make content
This heart that would surely lose its clasp on sanity,
For without all souls to stand collectively to represent,
Our family belovedly whole would forever cease to be.
by Maralee Gerke
she rambles like a wind-up toy
with a half-broken spring.
Standing rigid, hands clenched
and jaws tight, we try to
Blood vessels pulse
their inexorable job
of eradicating her memory.
We scrutinize each word, phrase,
and sentence for recognition
of our own aging.
In her wheelchair,
she sits like a wounded gladiator
dueling with the future.
Is this our duty? To witness
the blood sport of dying,
the decline, the slide.
She hangs on, trying to
make sure she still exists,
not recognizing herself.
We squirm inside
waiting for the final,
the mutual release.
MARALEE GERKE is a poet and gardener from Madras, Oregon. She has published two books of poetry and her poems have appeared in Calyx, Exit 13, Windfall, Avocet, and other poetry journals. Her work can been seen online at Long Story Short, Mu, and Moontown Cafe. Recently she recorded four poems which can heard online at oregonpoeticvoices.org. Contact
by Abigail Wyatt
When you were young I watched you play
I laughed at all your tantrums,
ABIGAIL WYATT writes for her life in the shadow of Carne Brae in Cornwall. Formerly a teacher of English, she is now a freelance writer whose poetry and short fiction have been published in a wide range of magazines and ezines, both in the United Kingdom and overseas. These have recently included Words with JAM, Word Salad, and Ink, Sweat & Tears; Kohinoor, Phoenix and One Million Stories. Her poetry is also regularly featured in Poetry Cornwall. Abigail is the 'house ' reviewer for Palores Press in Redruth. Her poetry collection, MOTHS IN A JAR, was published in October, 2010. Contact
I’m electric in the spring sun
Whatever little lies This boy tries
His mama can always tell
By observing him
To see if shadows dim
His bright and laughing eyes.
BRASH is known for writing poetry inspired by art, in association with the Washington, DC extravaganza ARTOMATIC, and by invitation to participate in various gallery events, readings, and performances. Her latest work includes creating and performing companion poetry to the book ADDICTION AND ART and the project’s show at Blue Elephant Gallery in Frederick, Maryland.BRASH will lead workshops at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland this year. Hear excerpts from her lyrical collaboration with Daisy Birch for Ahmad Nadimi's “SUITE FOR PEACE,” Read Frederick News Post interviews BRASH for the ADDICTION AND ART SHOW. See her claim to fame under “Notable Artists” on Wikipedia. Contact
A WOMAN'S ROLE
by Floriana Hall
Ah, women, alas, are makers of men
Females continue the cycle again
Sweet baby boys and girls grow up
To be their own personalities
To fill half empty or half full cups.
A woman’s task is never done
She tries her best from sun to sun
Nothing is too good for her children
No one is good enough for her children
Mothers try to show love equally
Children still say, “Mom prefers you over me.”
When mothers grow old and weary
Children look for signs of minds dreary
Mothers must sigh and remember
Her children will understand her
When they grow old and see clearly.
Mothers have influenced Presidents,
Kings, Queens and home residents
The sun shines like halos on heads
Of mothers who do or don’t make beds
Who practice love in every way
Who are good examples every day.
Not to worry, not to fret
Life goes on with generations of no regret
When mothers form a child’s early life
To be free of too much worry or strife
FLORIANA HALL is the author of twelve books, six nonfiction and six inspirational poetry books. Her nonfiction book, FRANCIS, NOT THE SAINT has recently been translated into Spanish (FRANCISCO, NO EL SANTO). Her new poetry book SELECT SANDS OF RHYME AND REASON and young children's book SIMPLE PLEASURES are now available at Cyberwit.net and Amazon.com. Floriana teaches poetry at www.LSSWritingSchool.com under YOU, ME, AND POETRY. Contact Website Website
Christina Rossetti - Credit: Public Domain
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.
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